The Palace of Impossible Dreams (6 page)

Arkady could have cried with relief. “Thank you.”

He shook his head sadly. “You are thanking me for nothing, Kady. I am still one of the crew. And you are still mine to do with as I want.”

But you're going to have to sleep sometime
, Arkady thought, sniffing back unexpected tears and quite deliberately not looking in the direction of the tray of instruments where the scalpels lay.

Turns out I have an alternate plan, after all.

Cayal's journey across the desert to Elvere was relatively fast, although it was uncomfortable. For one, he was on foot, and he stopped for nothing—not to eat, drink or rest—in the two days it took him to reach the city. This was one of those occasions when his immortality was a blessing rather than a curse. He didn't hunger or thirst or tire the way a mortal man would, or a mortal beast of burden, for that matter, which is why he chose to cross the desert on foot. Riding a camel may have been more comfortable, but it would have been much much slower.

It proved easy enough for Cayal to track Arkady down once he reached Elvere. There was really only one slave concern of note in the city and they pretty much controlled the movement of all slaves in and out of the port. Posing as a buyer, Cayal had hardly any trouble gaining an audience with the slave trader Brynden had sent Arkady to.

He described Arkady quite specifically and asked the man how much he wanted for her.

The slaver had treated him to an oily, apologetic smile and informed him he didn't have the Glaeban woman Cayal described. He had, however, recently acquired a Caelish woman of similar stature and appearance that his lordship might be interested in.

Cayal was relieved beyond measure . . . Until the slaver announced he'd recently branded the slave in question, batch-sold her to the Medura Shipping Company for eventual placement in the Senestran mines, and shipped her out several days earlier.

At which point, Cayal exploded with fury.

With the Tide on the turn, Cayal's anger was a tangible thing. The freak storm that lashed the city for more than a day, unroofing houses and swamping the slums with its torrential downpour, was nothing more than a reflex. For a time, Cayal even relished the feel of the rising Tide as he channelled its still nascent power . . .

But the unseasonable hurricane that swept across Elvere was fairly pathetic, given what he would be capable of once the Tide peaked. It made him feel a little better, even if it achieved nothing else useful. Even the thrill of the Tide faded too quickly, however. Within a day, Cayal's rage was spent,
and he was forcefully reminded of the reason the Tide no longer offered relief from his despair.

Besides, a part of him argued, he should probably let her go. Arkady Desean had a bad habit of making him forget his purpose. He was sorry for her—sorry she'd been sold into slavery—but worse had happened to him in his eight thousand years, and besides, she was a smart, tough woman. If anybody could find a way to survive such a fate, Arkady would. Cayal wanted to die, he reminded himself, and Lukys was insisting he'd found a way to make it happen.

I should listen to Lukys. Take advantage of the rising Tide and put an end to this endless existence while I have the chance.

He would be a fool to pass up an opportunity that may not come again for some ten thousand years, all for the sake of a woman who didn't want him, didn't love him, and tricked him into thinking there might be some reason to his existence, when eight thousand years of experience told him quite the opposite.

So Cayal, after three days of savage weather and countless mortal casualties, let the Tide go.

And yet the storm raged on . . .

Once he'd calmed down enough to take note of his surroundings, Cayal quickly discovered why the storm continued to rage, despite his attempts to calm it. He could feel the reason tingling along his arms. He could feel it resonating in his bones. He could feel the disturbance in the Tide; the ripples of another presence nearby on the surface of the magical ocean from which the Tide Lords drew their power.

There was another Tide Lord in Elvere, working mischief with the storm Cayal had set off in his rage.

The identity of the culprit was easy enough to deduce. It wasn't Brynden, Cayal was sure. The Lord of Reckoning was too careful of his mortal charges to allow such a storm to harm them. He'd be trying to end it, not feed it. Besides, he was busy trying to take over the country. Kinta was in Ramahn already, paving the way for his return. He wouldn't allow the most important port in the north to be destroyed. He wanted to rule Torlenia. He needed the commerce that passed through this port too much to allow any harm to come to it.

For similar reasons, Cayal doubted any of the other Tide Lords who could—on a good day—be considered reasonably sane, were responsible
for this. Which meant it was likely to be one of them who wasn't sane, narrowing down the candidates to Kentravyon or Pellys.

Both men had been driven insane by immortality, something Cayal tried not to think about too often, for fear of having to examine his own sanity too closely. Kentravyon was living proof of what happened when you swam too deep into the Tide and couldn't find your way back again. It had ended with him believing he was God and they'd had to band together and bind him in ice, to save the world from his delusions. Until Lukys had inexplicably decided to revive him, he should have remained in Jelidia where he could hurt no one.

Pellys's madness had a much less complicated cause. During a bout of depression eight thousand years ago, he had persuaded Cayal to decapitate him, knowing that when his head grew back—as did any part of an immortal separated from their body—it would grow back unburdened by the memories of his insanely long life.

The trouble was, the decapitation, in addition to destroying the entire nation of Magreth, had destroyed all the knowledge and experience that a person brought into immortality with them. Pellys had the mind of a petulant child with no conscience. It made him curious, amusing—and dangerous beyond comprehension.

Given that Kentravyon, even if he'd been revived by now, was—hopefully—in Lukys's custody somewhere in Jelidia, and Lukys would discourage such a wanton display of power so soon after the Tide had turned, that really only left Pellys.

Once he knew who he was looking for, it didn't take long to track down the other Tide Lord. He could feel him in the Tide, even more so when he was drawing on its power. His presence drew Cayal like iron filings to a magnet.

Cayal found the Tide Lord on the sixth day of the storm sitting on a high bluff, overlooking the slaughter yards of the Elvere abattoir. As usual, Pellys had sought out creatures who were about to die so he could bask in their mortality. He was sitting cross-legged on the bluff, wearing a bloodstained leather apron that even the incessant rain had been unable to wash clean, which spoke of more than a passing fascination with the abattoir. He'd probably, Cayal guessed, been working there as a slaughterman.

“Hello, Pellys,” he said, after climbing the storm-swept bluff where the Tide Lord was perched, the better to watch his handiwork wreak havoc on the city.

The older man glanced up, unsurprised to find Cayal standing there. He grinned. “I like your weather.”

Cayal lowered himself to the sodden ground beside Pellys. The waters of the harbour below churned in the storm, a sinister grey soup that blended almost seamlessly with the sheeting rain. “It's time to make it stop now, Pellys.”

“But I can feel the Tide. Haven't felt the Tide for a long time. It feels good.”

“I know, but you need to let it go.”

“I didn't start it, you know.” He turned to Cayal, frowning. “It's not my fault. Why do people always think it's
my
fault?” He'd been like this ever since his head had grown back. It was more than childish petulance; it was as if his regenerated brain had lost something in the regrowth, some capacity to advance beyond infantile reasoning and deal with more adult concepts. Like consequences.

“Nobody's blaming you, Pellys.”

“You started it, didn't you?”

Cayal didn't answer that. There didn't seem much point.

“I always get blamed for stuff you do.”

“Then let's stop this before there is something else to blame you for.”

Pellys seemed to consider that notion for a moment . . . and then abruptly, the rain stopped. Without the artificial encouragement of a Tide Lord, the weather immediately began to right itself. With unnatural speed, the clouds started to break up, allowing the sunshine through in spears of light bright enough to make Cayal squint.

“Better?”

Cayal nodded. “Much better.”

“I need a woman,” Pellys said. “Always do, after I've been riding the Tide.”

“And with such a charming seduction technique, I'm sure you'll find them lining up for you, Pellys, my old friend.”

The immortal smiled. Sarcasm was completely lost on Pellys. “Did you come to Elvere to find me?”

Cayal knew better than to tell Pellys the truth. “Of course I did.”

“You haven't looked for me for ages.”

“You've been hiding, haven't you?”

That gave Pellys pause. He nodded and then shrugged. “Still, would have been nice if you looked.”

“I'm here now. That's what really counts.”

Pellys nodded again and then turned to study Cayal, his face splitting into an enormous grin. “You're all wet.”

“Yeah . . . funny about that.”

His eyes lit up. “Did you want to sink some ships? I like the way the people all scurry about like ants when you sink their ships.”

Cayal sighed, wondering why he was even remotely surprised that Pellys hadn't changed since the last time they'd crossed paths. Admittedly, he'd not been an intellectual giant, even back before Cayal decapitated him, but now . . .

There, but for a headsman's dead mother, go I
, Cayal thought.

Pellys had no memories of his past before Cayal had put an end to his suffering by removing his head, just this infantile innocence coupled with the power of a Tide Lord. Of course, taking Pellys's memories had been the easy part; having a Tide Lord with the self-awareness of a newborn and the power to split a continent had proved the real problem. Magreth had sunk into the ocean in the process of Pellys's regeneration.
Would I have destroyed Glaeba the same way
, he wondered,
had they beheaded me instead of trying to hang me?

Would Arkady have survived?

Given her fate now, she might have been better off had his decapitation been successful. She'd be dead, more than likely, but she might consider that a more desirable state than slavery. But there was no point in wondering what might have been. The decision to let Arkady go had just been taken out of his hands.

With the Tide on the rise, and Pellys already fantasising about mass-murder on the high seas, Cayal knew he had to get him away from here.

He needed to take him somewhere safe; somewhere he could do the minimum amount of harm. There was always enough trouble when the Tide Lords regained their power with the turn of the Tide, without someone like Pellys running around, wantonly destroying things just for the pleasure of watching them die.

Then Cayal realised it wasn't so much a “where” he should take Pellys, but a “who.” Lukys had been around even longer than Pellys. He'd know what to do with him; know how to distract him.

They might even be able to use him. Lukys had said they needed the power of several Tide Lords, after all, to wield this magic he'd promised would end Cayal's life. Brynden wasn't going to help—Cayal wondered
what made him think he ever would—and he'd rather spend the rest of eternity in torment than ask for Tryan's assistance with anything. The idea of tracking down Elyssa was equally frightening, because there was only one sure way to secure her cooperation—and, even for death, Cayal wanted to avoid that. Perhaps his stumbling across Pellys like this was more than fortuitous coincidence. If he took Pellys back to Lukys's place in the desert, when the older man got back from Jelidia with Kentravyon they might have enough power to do this thing, and rid Cayal of this life he was so desperate to be done with.

“I've got a better idea,” he said. “Let's go pay Lukys a visit.”

“Do you know where he is?”

Cayal nodded. “He has a villa not far from here. It even has goldfish.”

They buried Shalimar on the side of the mountain, on a frosty morning the day after he passed away. A simple wooden plank, into which Nyah had roughly carved his name, marked his final resting place.

The little Caelish princess cried as Declan and Stellan lowered the old man's body into the grave and insisted on saying the Caelish Prayer for the Dead. It was a depressing ode filled with many “thees” and “thous,” references to the Tide Star, and suggestions of the possibility of an afterlife which Shalimar would have scorned had he been here to witness his own funeral.

Declan said nothing to her, however. The little girl had never had to confront death before. Her own father had died when she was still a small child, and she had no memory of him or the rituals associated with his passing, to help her. He sensed Nyah needed to feel she was contributing something, or perhaps saying goodbye—he wasn't sure which—so he let her speak and made no comment about it.

With the formalities done, Nyah headed back along the path toward the cabin, sobbing quietly, while Stellan and Declan filled in the grave. Unable to think of anything to say that might ease the little girl's grief, Declan watched her leave, wondering why the child—who'd known his grandfather for only a few months—seemed more upset at his passing than his own grandson, who remained dry-eyed.

“She and the old man had grown quite friendly,” Stellan said, tossing a spadeful of dirt over Shalimar's canvas-wrapped corpse. Perhaps he guessed the direction of Declan's thoughts.